Weather that qualifies as dreich, we were told on a recent hike, has at least four of these characteristics: cold, dismal, dreary, drizzly, dull, miserable, misty, or overcast. The term also implies “survivable,” as in character-building.
Four of us from the States tested our characters last week on a glorious wee wander known as the West Highland Way. This 95-mile ramble along lochs, across moors, and over bens thoughtfully links up several historical walking paths that show off much of the nation’s best scenery and history. We set off on a crisp Sunday from the center of Glasgow. Our route would quickly take us north out of the city, but we were in no hurry to leave. We passed imposing old stone bridges and blossoming botanic gardens that fit their surroundings as naturally as a thistle on a mountainside. Urban walking doesn’t get much better than this.
The next day, now fully in the hinterlands, we were joined for a while by seasoned English hill walkers. These guys figured on covering in four days the same distance we planned to do in seven. Listening to their speedy itinerary did not faze us. We knew what we liked and what we liked was taking a long lunch while watching ospreys dive. Or stopping at the Glengoyne Distillery for a wee dram. Maybe posing for jump photos using the camera’s timer delay. The West Highland Way is not a race.
The Way’s daily changes in character offered no shortage of backgrounds for our photos: long valleys, brown ridges, table-flat fields full of newborn lambs. We normally added or subtracted a layer of clothing during our stops, to match the weather’s many moods. The big sky was rarely a single color. Sometimes its mix of chalk and slate and coal could hide an eagle. The rough countryside invigorated us. We imagined our ancestors tramping into the same wild winds, navigating by the same craggy knobs. In no time, we became nationalists, belting out “Flower of Scotland” at the tops of our voices, and resolving to drink only the native soft drink, Irn Bru.
(Note to would-be Wayfarers: good whisky is nice, but it is criminal to visit Scotland without partaking of its other national drink. In no other land, it is said, does the local carbonated beverage outsell Coca-Cola.)
The week went on. Although the skies darkened, our moods became lighter. We breathed in deeply the northern air, wishing we could bottle its heather-tinged scent to bring home. Breaks in the clouds became more special for their scarcity. During one evening’s emergence of the sun, two of us dropped packs and scampered up a nearby peak for such panoramas as could be found in the mist, while the other two carried on through a glen that glowed with golden beams. At night we dreamt of worthy challenges.
We wished not so much for better weather as for more time to savor the wild goats, the Highland oxen, the romantic place names. Strathblane! Balmaha! Inversnaid! Bridge of Orchy!
Throughout much of our final afternoon, a slashing rain chased us. We knew without counting up the attributes that this was “dreich.” The torrent of shrapnel-like drops would have kept a car’s rear wipers busy. Our feet sloshed and wrinkled inside our boots. Opening and closing farmers’ fences required almost more energy than we could manage.As the drenching continued, we thought stout thoughts. We repeated aloud the motto for Irn Bru, which is, “It gets you through.” We reminded ourselves that it could be worse—all of our packs were waterproof, none of us was hypothermic, and a warm pub supper awaited us somewhere. Indeed, we knew we would not only survive, but also finish the trail better people than we began it.
